Maternal Instincts
by V.G. Marks
Summary: There are some spells that are considered so benign that there are no counterspells, like the one that creates motherchild bonds.  Benign, of course, unless your mother happens to be dead.  HPSS


A/N: This story contains elements of slash, but just barely.  If that sort of thing offends you, this probably isn't the fic for you!

***

The Wizarding World is pretty cruel. Maybe after nearly ten years of knowing of its existence, nothing should surprise me. These are the same people with spells that kill without a mark, produce horrific, hatred-fueled pain with the flick of the wrist, and that rape your mind with a smile on your face. Yet, every time I learn something new about it, I'm still caught off-guard.  
  
God, who knew the desire to be held could be so _strong_?   
  
This may not seem like a big deal. I mean, hugs are a dime a dozen. Hell, I could go off and get a hug from any number of people: Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Molly, and, if I felt like it, probably some random patron of the Leaky Cauldron. And I tried that, I did, but Pettigrew -- coward, coward, GOD, what a coward, fucking _rat_ -- knew _exactly_ what he was doing when he hit me with that spell before escaping again. I can't exactly get a hug from my mother, can I?  
  
_Tactilis maternum_. Not Dark magic -- not exactly, at least. Usually used on newborns that aren't nursing properly so they'll form proper bonds with their mothers. Rarely used in combination with locator spells so a missing child returns to the mother. No counter-spell. What would be the point? The mother usually casts it. There's not much information because it's considered so benign; I should know because I've read everything available. I'm the first person in history to be under its power as an orphan.  
  
Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived, Defeater of the Dark Lord, Top of His Auror Class, and Just Needs a Hug.   
  
It's kind of funny when you think about it. Especially if your idea of funny involves a constant itch under your skin, an almost painful constriction of your heart, and the drive to hold out your arms to every maternal-looking person.  
  
Now, what do I do? Can't work, so it's damned lucky that I have my inheritance to fall back on. I spend most days under my covers trying to get warm or researching, hoping I'll stumble across something.  
  
Piles of books surround me. Papers are strewn everywhere. I've been scratching my forearms and there are welts marring my skin. I'm still itchy.   
  
There's a knock at my door, but the visitor enters without waiting for a reply.  
  
Snape. Fuck Snape. He's obviously loving this; it makes me want to rush him and tear open his throat. _Laughing_ at me because my parents' _murderer_ got one off on me. Fuck him.   
  
His eyes go right to my arm. "Mr Potter, mutilating yourself won't help your situation."  
  
"With all due respect...fuck off, Professor." Ah, that feels good. Better than the scratching, at any rate.  
  
"Neither will moping around your flat, expecting someone else to come up with a plan to save you once again."  
  
I clench my jaw. "Because these papers all around me? That's me doing nothing, right? I know! Maybe they're recipes or lessons on how to be a proper homemaker! Fuck. You. Snape. I'm doing all I fucking can without leaving the house."  
  
Snape arches an eyebrow and fixes me with such a haughty stare that the urge to hurt him almost overrides the urge I have to fling myself in his arms. No, he's nothing near a maternal force, but he's the only warm body (relatively speaking) present. I wish he'd bugger off, but, of course, he approaches the desk.   
  
"I'll take it you're not interested in a cure, then?"   
  
This gets my attention. "Is it...did you make a potion? An antidote?" I stand and grab his wrist. I guess I was wrong, after all. He's practically burning.  
  
"Not an antidote." With his free hand, he reaches into the folds of his robes and retrieves a vial. Inside reside three strands of red-gold hair.  
  
Fuck. I release his wrist and grab the vial. "Are these...?"  
  
"Yes." I know better than to ask how he obtained them. Snape reaches into his robes again and retrieves a flask. I uncork the vial and, hand trembling, give him one of the hairs. He drinks, he changes, and opens up his arms.  
  
It's a good thing this works because I'm shaking so badly that I drop the vial. As I fling myself into my former-professor-cum-mother's arms, one itch disappears. An hour later, when he changes back, his hand is still tangled in my hair, I'm still in his arms, and I feel another itch begin.


End file.
